


Bastard

by Quicksilvermaid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergance, First Time, M/M, bastard boys - Freeform, outsiders - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/pseuds/Quicksilvermaid
Summary: Set in book 1 / season 1, after Ned's outed Cersei. When things start to get real, he cuts his losses and gets his people and his family out of danger. He just happens to pick up a royal bastard to bring back home with him ...Or the one where the new smith's 'prentice just has this way of getting under Jon's skin ...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over 4 months since I wrote about these two. I've been having bad withdrawals. This won't be particularly long (for me). Maybe 3 chs all up.
> 
> I'm very much still immersed in the Greysnow/ Goblet of Fire rewrite that has become my life and very committed to finishing that sooner rather than later ... but these two just needed a corner of my mind...
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as squirrel-and-me if you want to send me pics of Kit Harrington ...

Jon stares at the piece of paper in his hand, barely daring to believe the words writ across it in that familiar hand.  
'He's coming home,' Robb says clapping him on the shoulder, joy and relief colouring his voice. 'Father's coming home!'  
Jon takes a deep breath and reads the words again, imprinting them in his mind,  
_We leave immediately. The city is not safe for us or for others. We will be home with the solstice - Lord Eddard Stark_

He spends a fleeting moment puzzling over the 'others' referred to but then the thoughts of his father returning, of things being put back to rights flood over him. With father home, Lady Catelyn will be returning as well, and Arya and Sansa. The Starks will be back in Winterfell and Robb can stop pretending to be the Lord he isn't ready to be yet. Bran will have his mother back and Greyjoy will be put back in his place instead of whispering in Robb's ears all day long. With father back, everything will be the way it should be. 

\-----

The days pass slowly, but the worry and fear that had spread across the castle like a pall have dissipated. It seems that everyone has heard the news that the Lord is bringing his family home. Suddenly the chambers have been aired out, the rushes replaced in the Great Hall and the stables are filled with glossy-haired mounts. For the first time in weeks, Robb would rather spend his time inside at his books than out with Greyjoy astride a horse. Jon finds himself adrift in the midst of the flurry of activities. Everyone has a role. Everyone has a task. He never does - Robb's studies are too advanced now for the bastard to be seen as a necessary participant. He tries to keep the bitterness away, but it twists his thoughts when he thinks that word.

He sits with Bran sometimes. But Bran is still so weak and when he's awake, he's so confused that it makes Jon's stomach hurt to look at him and to remember the fearless young brother who had climbed so high so long ago. He can never find Rickon, and anyway he's just a baby. 

Sometimes he walks in the Godswood, Ghost at his side. Ghost likes it there. Jon likes it too. He likes the silence and the way the air always feels like it's waiting for something. But then he thinks of father and knows that while father comes to the Godswood, he wouldn't approve of Jon hiding out here, shirking his duties.

Finally, he finds old Mikken and Mikken smiles that craggy smile of his and puts him to work at the bellows. The smith has been muttering for years about how he needs a 'prentice and Jon likes watching the flames as they ebb and flow with each push of the wooden handle. It's hot work and hard work and there's something in it that soothes him - calms the jittery nerves he has while he waits and waits for father to return.

\----

It's a sharp, cold day when the riders are spotted. A shout goes up from a sentry on the gates and then a horn sounds. It's a cheery sound, a welcoming sound. It calls the riders home. It calls the Starks back to Winterfell. Jon is with Mikken again in the forge when he hears it. He barely pauses to dunk his blackened arms into the barrel of water and splash some up over his face and through his tangled curls before he's jogging for the gates, pulling his leather jerkin back on over his arms as he moves. He tugs harder at it - it's tighter nowadays - and laces it loosely as he joins the back of the crowd forming to welcome everyone home.

When the gates crack open, Robb is at the front of the group, Greyjoy just behind him, and father steps down from his horse to pull Robb into a long, tight hug, slapping his back. Lady Catelyn is next and then Sansa dismounts. She looks different, older, paler. Only Arya searches the crowd for him, and smiles her crooked little smile when she spots him. Then she jumps down from her horse too and he looses her in the press of bodies. Something in him eases to see them - all of them - back home and safe.

The guards are clustered behind them, stepping down from horses or moving into the crowd to greet wives or children. One young man hangs back, leaning against the side of one of the wagons. He watches everything but makes no move to greet anyone in the crowd. Jon looks more closely at him, thinking he looks familiar, but at the same time sure that he's never seen him before in his life. At that moment, the other man's eyes flick up to meet his, as he shakes shaggy hair back from his eyes. Jon feels a jolt as the blue eyes meet his … there's something so familiar … but then the young man quirks an eyebrow at him, crossing his thickly muscled arms across his chest and Jon looks away, feeling like a fool for being caught staring at a stranger.

Father spots him on the edges of the crowd as they make their way back to the castle and he draws Jon into a tight embrace. It's quicker than Robb's, but when father draws back to look Jon in the eyes, hands still tight on his shoulders, Jon knows the older man is no less happy to see him. He tries to ignore the tight frown that Lady Caitlyn sends his way as she puts an arm around Sansa, guiding her inside.  
'A beard?' father asks with a quirk to his lips. 'Suits you.'  
Jon flushes and looks away. Greyjoy has been teasing him for weeks about the way he's taken to cutting the hair close to his jawbone and framing his mouth. He won't admit to anyone that he wonders if one of the pretty girls might look his way if he seems more man than boy now. Father's eyes are too knowing as he turns away and continues into the castle, greeting folk as he goes.

Jon watches him and he's jolted forward a step as a weight hits his back and skinny arms wrap around his neck and skinny legs around his waist. He staggers and laughs, reaching back over his shoulder to pull Arya forward with ease, crushing her to his chest.  
'Welcome home, little sister,' he says as she squirms in his grip.  
'Let. Me. Down,' she growls and he releases her, a fond smile on his face. No sooner has he done so that she jumps back into a fighting crouch and whips a pointed sword out, holding it in his face. His eyes widen and his smile deepens, 'You kept it!'  
She grins at him, 'Father even got me a dancing master to teach me lessons.' For a moment her face clouds with something he doesn't understand and his heart aches to think what could have put that look on his little sister's face, but then her expression clears and she waves the slim blade in a complicated pattern before sheathing it smoothly. He raises and eyebrow, impressed despite himself.

'Show off,' comes a muttered snort from nearby as someone passes them. Jon's head turns and he can't help the frown that comes immediately to his face. It deepens when he sees the broad shoulders of the stranger from earlier walking away from them. What right does he have to insult a Stark. Jon opens his mouth and takes a step forward, but Arya leans against him again, wrapping her arms around him for a proper hug.  
'Don't worry about _him_ ,' she says. 'He's just jealous because he's too thick to swing a blade.' The last is said with a raised voice that is definitely meant to carry. The young man's shoulders stiffen and his step freezes for a moment. It seems a force of will that keeps him moving forward.

Jon looks down at his sister with a question on his face at the familiarity in her tone.  
'That's the Bull,' she says, watching him go. 'He's a thick-headed jerk, but he's okay.'  
'What's he doing here?' Jon asks, intrigued despite himself.  
Arya shrugs, 'Father brought him home from Kings Landing. He was a Smith there so I suppose he's going to 'prentice with Mikken.' She shrugs again, 'anyway, don't worry about _that_. I have so much else to tell you!' With that she smiles up at him and without needing to say a word, they walk side-by-side to their favourite spot to sit on the wall and watch the courtyard. As Arya starts telling him all the dreadful things Sansa's been doing, something in Jon eases even further to have his little sister home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are life. Would love to know what you think.
> 
> Also, first time writing present tense, just to see how I like it ... Jury's still out.


	2. Chapter 2

The feast that night is full of laughter and fun. Most of the castle is there, celebrating the return of the Lord's family, and the return of husbands, fathers and brothers within his guard. Because it's just the household, Jon is seated on the top table with the rest of the family and he lets the conversation swirl around himself as he just immerses himself in the sense of stability and safety that having them all home brings him. Lady Caitlyn has brought Bran down for dinner, seated in a special chair and he gives Jon a tired smile as he picks at his meal, one tiny fork full at a time. Even Rickon is down for dinner, hair for once brushed into neatness and his tunic unstained. Jon is amused to see him flicking peas one by one at Shaggydog, who lies in front of the table and snaps each one out of the air effortlessly.

Looking at Shaggydog makes him think of Lady and Nymeria. When Arya had told him what had happened to both wolves … he still feels the pang in his chest at the thought of what it would be like to be separated from Ghost. The silent wolf won't enter the great hall, but somehow Jon can feel him out there in the night, like another part of him that he doesn't see, but always knows is attached, all the same. His eyes flick down the table to Sansa, who is eating quietly, eyes fixed on her plate. At her side Jeyne is trying to draw her into conversation, but Sansa barely replies, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. He frowns at the sight of her. It’s no secret that they'd never got on … but he doesn't like seeing her like this. He turns to Arya at his side to ask her more about this so-called betrothal to the false King and his eyes widen to see the look on her face.

She's staring down the hall and has both eyes crossed, her cheeks blown up and her tongue poking out. He just stares at her a moment, before he follows her gaze down to a table at the back where he sees … the new smith's 'prentice making an incredibly rude gesture at his sister. At his side, Arya snorts with delighted laughter. Jon turns back to her, growling under his breath, 'What are you doing? You can't let him act like that - like you're some bawdy lowborn serving woman he wants to tumble!'  
Arya turns her gaze to his and now it's him on the receiving end of her laughter. 'I think my virtue is safe with Gendry, Jon. Maybe you should be more worried about Robb or Greyjoy's.'

He stares at her, nonplussed by her reaction. Then the impact of what she'd just said hits him and his eyes widen. The new man - _Gendry_ \- likes men? He likes men and he's open enough about it that Jon's _little sister_ knows about it?  
'How do you know that?' he demands, not sure why it matters to him that she verifies it. Arya shrugs and digs into her pile of potatoes, shovelling them into her mouth.  
'Caught him at it with Harwin behind one of the wagons on the trip back.'  
Jon's eyes widen again at this casual mention. He darts his gaze across to the man in question and is shocked to see the young smith staring at him from across the hall. As Jon watches, the man's gaze moves between him and Arya, as though he knows that they're talking about him and is very curious to know what they're saying.

Jon looks away quickly, cheeks flushing a dull red. He's suddenly glad that he'd started growing a beard these past months. He doesn't even know why he's had such a reaction, let alone want someone else to notice it. He clears his throat, stabbing at a chunk of meat and then asks Arya what the worst thing about the Red Keep had been, feeling confident that this was a topic of conversation she'd leap straight into. Sure enough, she starts up about the ladies, and the gowns and the stuffy feasts and Jon goes back to his meal, making small sounds of acknowledgement when needed. He keeps turning the information he's just learned over and over in his mind, unsure why it suddenly seems so important to him.

He keeps his eyes firmly on his plate or on his sister. At the end of the meal, when plates are being cleared away, he glances up, looking across the hall, unsure what he's even looking for. He feels a jolt of shock when he meets icy blue eyes, staring unwaveringly across the room into his. He feels caught in that gaze, somehow unable to look away, until the young smith smiles, a slow confident smile. Jon drops his eyes at the smile, not knowing what it means or how to react to it. Not knowing why he's even meeting the gaze of a stranger across the room in the first place. As his father rises and calls the feast to an end, Jon stands as well, saying a quick goodnight to those around him, before turning and leaving the hall, the carefree feeling of the evening long gone.

________

The next few days pass in a blur. The castle is full of activity now, with men coming and going daily, riding out to Lord Stark's bannermen with news and plans. They were preparing, Robb had told him. Preparing in case the southern rulers moved against them. He'd only heard bits and pieces of what had transpired at King's Landing, but the castle was buzzing with the most important piece of news. The King - Joffrey Baratheon - was a false king, born of incest between the Queen and her brother. It was what had driven his father and his men out of the city, and what might have the Queen retaliating against them. Surely she couldn't let such an accusation stand … 

So men came and went and the castle was busy with crops and livestock being brought in to store, new weapons being forged daily and guardsmen training round the clock with an intensity Jon had never seen in them before. Father tells him to make himself useful, as he ushers Robb into his strategy room along with Maester Luwin and some of the Lords who had already arrived. As the door shuts in his face, Jon wonders what he can do that will be useful. The clash of arms and the shouts of men drifting in from the courtyard below decide him and he heads for the training yards. He's let himself grow soft while Jory was away, and he knows there'll be hell to pay, but he's suddenly looking forward to using his body, to thinking of nothing beyond the next cut or parry.

As expected, Jory looks him up and down when he presents himself, the smirk on his face saying he knows exactly what Jon has and hasn't been doing and promising that the next few hours are going to hurt him. Jon just grins back, a hungry grin, and strips off his tunic, picking up one of the heavy padded vests and slipping it on.  
'Belt on a sword and a mail shirt as well,' Jory says, when he reaches for one of the dulled practice blades. 'I want twenty laps of the castle before you begin.'  
Jon grimaces but reaches for the heavy mail without complaining. He would have been able to do this effortlessly a few months ago … now … he just hopes he doesn't embarrass himself by vomiting on Jory's shoes when he's done.

'Oh and Snow,' Jory calls from his position by a group of fighters, as Jon pulls the sword belt tight. 'If you're not done before the tenth bell, I'll expect another twenty.'  
Jon swears under his breath. It had been ninth bell when father had ordered him away. Even at his fittest that would have been pushing things. But he just grits his teeth and sets out with a light jog. He'd learned long ago the stupidity of beginning with a sprint before he was properly warmed up.

Not many people spare a glance for him as he jogs the worn track around the castle, past the crypts, the entrance hall, the stables. The sight of guardsmen training had long ago ceased to be of interest to any of the castles inhabitants. Even Snow, the Lord's bastard, is too common a sight to take anyone away from their task.  
Yet as Jon approaches the forges, he gets an intense feeling of being watched. He's moving quicker now, warmed up, legs eating the ground in a smooth lope that he can keep up for miles if he needs to. He glances up, curious to see whose eyes are on him and it's only a second before he spots him. Gendry - the new 'prentice - is staring directly at him as he holds a glowing blade over an anvil, hammer raised for the next blow. The young smith's arms are bare, despite the cold and his corded muscles glisten with a sheen of sweat.

Jon pulls his eyes away, making himself look ahead at where he's going. But he still catches Gendry's smile. It's that same confident smile from the night of the feast. The smile that says he has no problems with watching Jon … and with Jon knowing that he's doing it. Jon huffs at the thought, refusing to be unsettled by the man's look. He speeds his run again, pushing his legs harder to take his mind off the other man. He snorts at himself even having his mind on the other man to begin with.

Yet when his next lap takes him past the forges again, Jon can't help but dart his eyes across at the figures within. Gendry has the blade he's working on deep within the coals, but his eyes are already on Jon and his smile broadens into a smirk as their eyes meet again. With a curse Jon looks away, focussing on nothing but the ground under his feet and the bitterly cold air moving through his chest. The next lap and the one after and the one after, he keeps his eyes to himself. He tells himself he's not being childish, that looking to see whether someone is watching him is the more childish action. 

But on his sixth lap, he can't help himself. He just needs to know whether the young smith is still watching him or whether he's given up and gone back to his job. His eyes find Gendry unerringly through a cloud of steam. He stands at the front of the forge, strong hand grasping the tongs that grip the blade he's just plunged into the quenching barrel with a hiss of boiling water. As Jon's eyes meet his, Gendry breaks his gaze and Jon feels a jolt as the other man's eyes travel without haste down his body and back up to meet his, before he moves out of sight. Just as Jon's about to round the corner, Gendry _winks_ at him. Jon feels a jolt in his chest as his heart thumps and a tingling heat spreads through him. The reaction confuses him. It makes him feel the way he feels sometimes when he goes into Wintertown with Robb and Greyjoy, and one of the women makes an offer to him in a low, throaty voice. He's never acted on any of them - he never would - but he's never thought that he might feel the same way about a look from a man … 

Jon continues running, mind lost in thought, feeling the residual heat tingling through his chest. He completes a few more laps lost in his own thoughts, examining his feelings in the past and coming to an uncomfortable conclusion. There was that time he'd watched Greyjoy tupping that woman and found his eyes drifting to the man's arse, instead of the woman's naked chest. And the times he'd caught himself admiring the smooth, hard lines of a guardsman's shoulders as they washed off after a hard training session. And then there's the way he can't seem to keep his eyes away from the new smith with his blue eyes and his knowing looks … with a wry snort at himself, he thinks this may be an extreme measure to go to, to ensure he never fathers a bastard. Inside, though, he knows this is more important. Something that maybe he's been leading up to realising for a while now.

On his next lap, he's focussed again, wanting to look at the other man in the light of the idea that he might not be imagining the smith's interest in him … and that he might not be adverse to returning it. Gendry's eyes dart across to his for a moment, but he's clearly engaged in a task that needs all his concentration. This time Jon watches him, still not quite sure why he wants to, but unable to pull his eyes away. He watches the way Gendry's strong arms and broad shoulders bunch and tense as he lifts his hammer, sending it smashing down onto the molten steel being moulded under his touch. His face is serious and focused, lit by the glowing coals in the pit in front of him. Every part of his body radiates power and strength. That same tingle of warmth spreads through Jon's body and he feels his heart beat a little faster again as his feet pound the hard earth. Right. So. Interested then.

On his last lap, he glances in the forge again, but Gendry is nowhere to be seen. He fights down a stab of disappointment and grits his teeth, shaking his head and pushing himself harder again. He sprints into the yard and bends over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, just as the bells begin to toll to mark the hour.  
'Mail off. Sword out,' Jory calls from across the yard. Jon lifts his tired head to see the guard captain watching him with a small smile on his face. He knows that's high praise from the other man and forces himself to straighten, pulling the mail off and ignoring the stitch in his chest. He pulls the dulled blade out of its scabbard at his side, forcing himself to ignore his protesting muscles as he hefts the blade and lines up against one of the guardsmen, who moves across to face him. Jon looks up to see that it's Harwin, someone who Jon's shared a drink in the barracks with more than once. He's a well-liked man, apt to speak his mind, especially when in his cups. Jon faces off against him and tries his hardest to ignore the words that have just come into his mind, _Caught him at it with Harwin behind one of the wagons on the trip back_. It's none of his business who the newcomer fucks.

Nevertheless, his first cut is vicious, a fast blow that Harwin only just parries in time. Jon reverses and cuts at him again, the ache in his muscles completely forgotten as his focus narrows to the blade in his hand and the opponent in front of him. Soon they are dancing back and forth in a blur of steel. Jon is pushing Harwin to his limit, the other man frantically defending but unable to get a blow of his own in. Jon feels a savage glee rising in him. This is what he's good at. This is where he's useful. This. This he can do. He cuts and cuts again at the man in front of him. Unbidden an image enters his mind of Harwin pushed up against a wagon, breeks at his knees while behind him, Gendry grips at his hips with strong calloused hands while he thrusts deep within him. Jon growls and unleashes a furious blow that has his opponent stumbling back onto the ground, sword flying out of his hand. Harwin raises his hands in surrender, a look of wariness in his eyes.

As Harwin yields, Jon pushes down the stab of satisfaction that rises in him. This is just one of father's guardsmen. This was just a training session. He forces a smile onto his face and reaches a hand down for the other man. Harwin grips it and pulls himself to his feet. As he does so, Jon sees Gendry over the guardsman's shoulder, leaning casually against a pillar at the edge of the training yard. He's watching the two of them and he raises one eyebrow when Jon's eyes meet his, as though he knew exactly why Jon just did what he did. Jon flushes and claps Harwin on the shoulder, turning away from Gendry's knowing eyes.

Jory approaches him, clapping him on the shoulder. 'Good work Snow. Go and get cleaned up, then I want you here after the noon bell and again at dawn tomorrow. You're one of mine now.' Jon feels a glow of pride at the words. Jory wouldn’t take him on unless he was skilled enough. He'll make father proud yet. He begins unlacing the heavy quilted tunic, shrugging it off his shoulders and letting the crisp air cool his sweat soaked skin. He runs a hand through his tangled curls and considers whether he should cut them or tie them back if he's going to be training regularly. Shrugging mentally at the thought, he picks up a dipper of water from the barrel and sluices it over his head and down his naked chest, picking up a scrap of cloth to rub roughly over his skin. He turns to pick up his own tunic from where he'd hung it over a post that morning and his sees Gendry again, eyes raking up Jon's body as though he wants to _devour_ him. The same warmth from earlier floods through him this time at the want in the other man's face as he watches Jon's body. Jon can feel himself getting hard in reaction to the heat of the other man's gaze. He pushes the feeling away, trying to concentrate on something else. Glad that the drape of his shirt hides his reaction from the men around him.

Jon takes a few deep breaths to get himself under control before he leaves the practice field. Gendry is still there, of course, leaning against the stone, soot-streaked arms crossed across his chest. Jon screws up his courage and approaches him, clearly seeing the interest that sparks in Gendry's eyes as he does so. Up close the other man is more good looking than he'd realised. His jaw is clean shaven and square and his eyes are a deep, deep blue that seems to darken as he looks into them.  
'I'm Jon Snow,' he says, reaching out a hand to shake. When Gendry takes it, his hand is calloused and his grip strong. Jon likes the way Gendry's hand feels in his - likes the power in the grip. It's certainly not how holding a woman's hand had felt, the few times he'd done it.  
'I know,' the other man says in a husky voice, and his confident smile is back again. Jon feels his face redden slightly at the fact that the man had obviously been interested enough to find out about him. He wonders what else Gendry knows. He scrambles for something to say, not wanting to appear a fool in front of this confident young man from King's Landing.

'Can you fight?' Jon blurts out.  
'Not with a sword,' Gendry shakes his head. Jon feels a stab of disappointment, though he's not sure why. It’s not like the man not being a fighter matters … Then Gendry is speaking again.  
'I prefer a hammer.'  
Jon follows the other man's gesture with his eyes to see a beautifully cast weapon leaning against the racks. It's a massive chunk of steel, and without lifting it, Jon knows it will be too heavy for him. He raises his eyebrows, impressed.  
'We should train some time. I've never gone up against a hammer,' he offers, eyes still on the weapon, noting the almost delicate antlers of the stag twining up the head of it.  
Gendry hums in agreement. 'I'm sure I have some moves I could show you,' he says in response. Jon's eyes dart back to meet his, and he flushes at the double meaning of the words, clearly meant by the look on Gendry's face.

He screws up his courage, heart thudding in his chest and says, 'I'd like that.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is supported to be canon compliant, that said I haven't gone back to make sure my details are accurate, so if any inaccuracies bother you, my apologies.
> 
> I'm so rubbish at dialogue lol. I never manage to include much of it. Oh well. Hope a whole bunch of staring was an appropriate substitute :p
> 
> Hope you liked part 2! Part 3 will be what earns us that explicit rating ...


	3. Chapter 3

It's almost a moon after the Starks had returned to Winterfell that Lord Stark holds a feast for his bannermen. It's taken that long to send word to each of the Lords and for them to travel to the castle in turn. The Mormonts, from Bear Island, had been the last to arrive that morning and the castle had been in a frenzy ever since, preparing the food and drink to feed the hundreds of arrivals. Each Lord had brought with him a score of men. Not all would be feasting in the Great Hall, of course, but Lord Stark had declared that they too should be welcomed the hospitality of the castle.

Jon is lacing the stays on his best doublet, black edged in silver - the one Sansa had once said made his eyes look like the grey stone of Winterfell ... a comment he thought had been a compliment - when there's a knock on his door. Confused, he frowns at the sound. None of the serving women ever attend his chambers, and Arya never bothers to knock.   
Then the door swings open and his father walks in, his face looking worn and tired.   
'Father,' Jon greets, surprise colouring his voice.   
'Jon,' Lord Stark says in his gravelly voice, nodding his head as he looks around the small chambers. 'I've been getting reports from Jory on your progress these past weeks,' he says, eyes returning to Jon's. Jon doesn't say anything, waiting for his father to continue. 'He's pleased with you. Says you'll make a fine Captain some day.'  
Jon allows a small smile onto his face at the thought of Captaining his father's guard - Robb's guard someday. Father glances around the room again. 'We'll have to move you down to the barracks soon enough. You should live with the men if you're going to be training with them.'  
Jon nods, but his smile fades. The castle is his home ... he hasn't thought about the fact that he can't live here for ever. Those who do are either Starks or those who serve the Starks. There is no in between. He's been occupying a strange middle ground his whole life. One of the family ... But not one of the family ... And now that he's come of age, it seems the lines of division are becoming clearer. 

He pushes away the stab of pain that thought brings, but it seems his father sees some of the hurt in his face. When Jon looks up, Lord Stark's face is more lined than ever. But he doesn't offer hollow words of apology. Instead when he opens his mouth, he says the words he must say. The words he clearly knows will drive the pain deeper.   
'We are hosting Lords from bloodlines as old as the Weirwood trees at the feast tonight. They need to see a united, strong House Stark, defined and set apart from the Lannisters by our honour.' Now he pauses and a look of shame comes to his face. It doesn't sit well with him, is an emotion he rarely needs to entertain. Jon has a flash of guilt over the fact that he is almost always the cause of that look.   
'It would be best -' Jon's father begins, but Jon cuts him off with a shake of his head, not wanting to hear him say it, wanting to pretend, just for a moment longer that he isn't his father's shame. 

Then he holds back a sigh and forces a smile. 'I'll sit at the lower tables tonight father, of course.'  
His father regards him for a moment, face solemn, then reaches out to clasp his shoulder tightly. He doesn't say anything, but Jon can read the conflicted pride on his father's face. Then the touch is gone and the door shuts tight behind Lord Stark as he leaves. 

As soon as the door closes, Jon rips the doublet off over his head, heedless of the fine material as he balls it up and throws it across the room. He wants to scream. Wants to hit something. Hot tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but he forces them away. He won't cry. This is his lot. He knows it. He's always known it. Now he just needs to learn to live it. All the time, not just on special occasions when father is hosting his Lords. 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself under control, and then kneels at the chest at the foot of his bed, rifling through it, looking for another shirt, one better suited to the lower tables. His hand closes on a linen tunic and he pulls a quilted vest out with it, slipping both on with quick, angry movements. He glances down at himself, knowing he looks like a commoner ... And suddenly an image of the feast to come flashes into his mind. He'll look up at the high table, see the Lords and Ladies in all their finery ... see his family in all their finery. He'll meet Robb's eyes and see that look he sees more and more every day. That look that sends him out into the yards with increasing frequency to train with the men. Pity. He hates that look. Hates that it's his brothers eyes he sees it in 

Suddenly he can't do it. He growls a curse under his breath moves to the door, grabbing his fur lined cloak from its peg and throwing it over his shoulders. He'd rather avoid the feast altogether than have to deal with that. He makes his way quickly out of the castle and into the cool night air of the grounds. It's quiet outside. The hustle and bustle of the castle is a muted din from out here, and the raucous sounds of the many men camped outside the walls drifts faintly in the air. He thinks for a moment about joining them, but he doesn't want company. He'd rather be alone with his thoughts this night. His feet take him a familiar path and he's halfway to the Godswood when a voice startles him from the darkness.   
'Not invited to the feast, Snow?'

He starts and turns his head to the sound, eyes searching the darkness as his hand drops to the knife at his belt. Then he sees the figure in the dim light, lit by the glowing embers of the forge fires. Gendry's faintly visible under the deep roof of the forge. He's sitting up on one of the workbenches, back resting against a wooden pillar, one leg dangling over the side and a flask held loosely in one hand. The red glow of the fire makes his bronzed skin shine. Jon wonders idly how long it will take his summer colour to fade to a winter pallor. Then he flushes to think that he's been wondering about that ... again. He hesitates, torn between continuing on the path he'd decided to take, and stopping a moment, to talk to the Smith who gives him that breathless sense of _anticipation_. It's been weeks. Weeks of casual conversations, accidental meetings, words with double meanings and careless touches that make Jon's heart kick up in his chest every time. And always that look from Gendry. That knowing, confident look.

When Gendry holds out the flask in his hand, in a clear invitation, Jon realises he's just been standing there, staring mutely. He flushes deeply, glad for the darkness, and takes a hesitant step forward.  
'I'm having my own feast,' Gendry says, not seeming to care that he hasn’t replied. That's how most of their interactions seem to go. Jon in awkward, uncertain silence and Gendry speaking enough for both of them, carrying the conversation effortlessly, never making Jon feel like he was required to say more if he didn't want to.  
'Course, it's a little light on the food side of the feast, though I did manage to filch a nice hot loaf from the kitchens earlier. But I more than make up for it on the drinks side of things.'   
Jon can hear in his voice that he's been drinking. He's not drunk by any stretch, but there's an extra layer of warmth in his voice that's not normally present.

He takes another few steps forward.  
'Why aren't you at the feast?' he asks, suddenly curious. 'Not up to your Southern standards?' He bites his lip slightly at the quip. It's more teasing than he usually manages when faced with Gendry's presence.  
Gendry snorts in response, bringing the flask back to his lips for another swallow. Jon takes a few more steps nearer to him. He can feel the heat of the forge fires on his face now. They're a delicious warmth compared to the cold night air.  
'Hardly,' he says. 'Don't know what it's like for you Northerners, but down South, a bastard is not a welcome presence at any man's feast.'  
Jon's face twists into a bitter smile, 'Much the same as here, then,' he says and he reaches for the flask. Gendry gives him a half smile that speaks to a lifetime of shared experiences and suddenly it hits home for Jon for the first time. Truly. This man before him knows what it is to be some man's shame. To live with the stain of a deed done before your birth hanging over your head, shaping your whole future. He feels such a strong sense of _kinship_ for a moment that it overwhelms him. 

He brings the flask to his lips and takes a deep gulp to give himself a moment to process. The liquid burns down his throat and makes him gasp for breath, bringing tears to his eyes.  
'This is father's brandy,' he says, coughing slightly and making to pass the flask back.  
'Keep it,' Gendry says, with a wicked grin. 'I have another. Arya's been showing me all around the castle. M'Lady knows where all the good stuff is kept.'  
'Don’t let her hear you call her that,' Jon says with a low chuckle, feeling the alcohol flow through him in a warm wave, relaxing him.  
Gendry laughs in response, eyes crinkling and smile wide, 'Why do you think I do it.'  
Jon leans against the end of the workbench, looking into the glowing coals a few feet away. Gendry's laugh dies into silence, broken only by the distance sounds of the merriment from the castle and the camp outside the walls.

The sound of Gendry moving breaks his focus on the fire and he looks back across to see the Smith stretching out across his workbench to reach another flask that he has tucked away in the corner. One leg is still on the edge of the bench, the other dangling over the side, and the motion stretches his long, muscled form out, pulling his shirt up and revealing a stretch of hard, defined stomach that gleams the same bronze as the skin on his arms and face in the glowing light. Jon swallows, mouth suddenly dry, as he stares at that small strip of skin, unable to tear his eyes away. His heartbeat thumps in his chest and he's seized with a mad desire to just reach out and _touch_.

'You like what you see?'   
Gendry's voice startles him and he pulls his eyes up to the other man's face. The Smith is still leaning across his workbench, propped up on one elbow now, with the flask he'd been searching for in his other hand.  
Jon blushes again at the question. They'd been skirting around this topic for weeks, but Gendry had never blatantly come out and _asked him_. It might as well be an invitation to - suddenly Jon's breath catches and his eyes widen. That cocky, confident grin is back on Gendry's face as he watches Jon, waiting for his response. Jon realises that it's exactly what it sounds like. An invitation. And that if he wants to … he can have exactly what he's been thinking about having for weeks.

But thinking and doing are two different things. He's never - not even with a woman … let alone a man. Would it be easier with a man. Would he automatically know what to do? Or would it be awkward? Unnatural?  
'You're over thinking it,' Gendry's voice cuts into his thoughts again. He pushes himself up and then slides off the bench, flask forgotten behind him as he stands a few feet away from Jon.  
'I've seen the way you watch me,' he takes a step closer, eyes on Jon. Jon feels his heartbeat skip and his breathing comes faster.   
'I know you want it,' Gendry says, voice low and husky now. He takes another step, until he's right in front of Jon. Jon feels a tingling heat run through his body. He can't take his eyes off Gendry's and he feels an intense awareness of exactly how close the other man is to him right now, how little it would take for Jon to bridge the distance between them.

'I know you want me,' Gendry says, voice just a whisper and Jon can smell the sweetness of the liquor on his breath. Suddenly he wants to taste it from the other man's mouth - wants to press their lips together and let himself forget everything for a time. He's so sick of not getting what he wants, not getting anything just for him. Surely, this, he can have.

Slowly, achingly slowly, Gendry brings a hand up, rubs it lightly over his cheek and then tangles his fingers in the hair at the back of Jon's neck. He feels a jolt of tingling heat run through him at the touch and draws in a sharp breath. Gendry's closer again, Jon can feel him, a warm, hard presence all along his front, just the lightest of touches. His eyes drop, against his will, to Gendry's mouth, right there, just inches from his own, lips slightly parted. He drags his gaze back up to meet Gendry's, desire flooding through him at the closeness of the other man. Gendry's eyes are dark, hooded, full of need. Jon shivers lightly at the look in them.

'Do you want this?' Gendry whispers, almost against his skin.  
Jon doesn’t hesitate, he whispers a broken, 'Yes', in response. He wants this. He _needs_ this. Pleasure flashes across Gendry's face momentarily, then he bends his head, closing the final gap between them. His lips, when they brush against Jon's are soft and warm. The light touch of his first kiss send sparks flying through Jon. He pushes forward, wanting more than the delicate touch. Gendry responds instantly, bringing his other hand up to Jon's face as well, holding him as he deepens the kiss, pushing their mouths together. Jon can’t help the grunt he makes in response to the feeling of Gendry's stubbled skin against his, and the rush of want that flows through him. He also can't help bringing his own hands up to reach around Gendry's waist and pull them closer together. Now they're touching properly, pressed together from knees to shoulders and the heat along his front is turning into an inferno. Gendry feels so good. So solid and strong, even through the layers of their clothing.

Gendry's only wearing a linen shirt and breeches, the fires of the forge keeping him plenty warm, even for a Southerner, but Jon feels like he has too many layers on. He suddenly wants to touch and be touched. He's seen glimpses and hints of Gendry's beautifully muscled form as he works or trains, and now he wants it under his hands.  
Gendry's thoughts seem to be aligned with his. The other man begins to fumble with the clasp of the cloak at the base of Jon's neck. He does it without breaking the kiss, which is now wet and open mouthed. After a moment the clasp opens and the cloak falls backwards over his shoulders to pool, forgotten on the ground at their feet.

Gendry breaks off the kiss to bury his head in Jon's neck, kissing and licking the skin there as his hands fumble blindly at the quilted vest. Jon tilts his head to the side, moaning at the feeling of the other man's mouth on him and at the rolling grind of friction against his growing arousal as Gendry moves slowly against him. He pulls Gendry closer again, hands sliding tentatively down his back and onto his arse. He's never … he doesn't know what he should - Gendry moves back from him and Jon freezes, afraid he's done something wrong, but Gendry just pulls at the quilted material, looking up at Jon with eyes blown wide with lust.  
'Off,' he says, and his voice is raspy and thick with want. Jon moves to obey, fingers clumsy with haste. He pulls the thick material over his head and drops it to the ground. Gendry steps closer again immediately, hands moving to Jon's waist and then slipping under his shirt. The touch of the other man's hands against the bare skin of his stomach, then back and chest, is intoxicating. Jon pulls Gendry back into another desperate kiss, his hands to either side of the Smith's face. Gendry pushes him back until Jon is up against the workbench and then he grinds into him, slow and filthy. Jon gasps at the feeling of the other man's hardness rubbing against his own.

Gendry tugs at his shirt, clearly wanting to pull it up and off. Jon hesitates a moment, trying to push through the haze of want and need to just _think_ for a second.  
'We -' he begins, and then Gendry captures his mouth in another deep, passionate kiss and their tongues move against each other in a delicious slide that is fast becoming Jon's favourite thing. He forces himself to stop and try again.  
'We shouldn't,' he gasps, 'Someone could see.' Gendry just moves down to his neck again, sucking and biting in earnest now, drawing a deep groan from him at the mix of pleasure pain between the teeth at his neck and the fingers digging hard into his hips. He would bruise, he though, and felt his cock jump at the thought. He wanted … he wanted memories of this, he realised suddenly. Marks to show what he'd done.

That realisation makes his concern about being seen seem misplaced. He shouldn't have to hide. Shouldn't have to feel shamed. Many a time he's seen a man and a woman fucking in a dark corner come the end of a night of celebrations. He pushes at Gendry's shoulders until he moves back a touch and then reaches down to the hem of his own shirt to pull it up and over his head in one smooth movement. Gendry grins at him, glancing up and down his naked chest with a searing gaze. Then he reaches for the hem of his own shirt and pulls it over his head.

Gendry steps in close, pressing their naked chests together and Jon marvels for a second the difference between his unmarked pale skin and Gendry's darkly tanned, soot-stained skin. Then the other man's mouth is on his again, and he forgets everything except the taste of Gendry and the feel of him and the movement of their bodies together. Gendry's hands trail down Jon's body, gripping and scraping lightly with rough, calloused palms. He rubs his fingertips over Jon's hips and to the ties that lace his breeches closed. There is a clear question in his eyes and Jon nods, desperate for relief from his aching cock. Gendry makes short work of the laces, stripping them out and pulling the front of his pants open. Then, without warning he reaches in and pulls Jon's hard cock out, rubbing his fist up and down the shaft, gathering the slick from his pre-come and smoothing it down with a practiced twist of his wrist.  
Jon can't help the moan that the movement draws from him. It feels so fucking good. So much better than anything he's done for himself. He grips at Gendry's shoulders and kisses him desperately, tongues entwining in a wet, furious rhythm. 

Gendry pumps at his shaft, stroking and squeezing him, running a thumb over his sensitive head with a friction that's just the right side of too much. It's fast and hot and dirty and he loves it. It brings him to the edge so much sooner than he wants to be. He doesn't want it to be over. He pushes at Gendry, gasps, 'Slow down. Please. I won't last.'  
Gendry grins at him, that same wicked grin. 'Relax, Snow, this is just to take the edge off.'  
Jon whimpers at that and lets his head fall to Gendry's shoulder. The other man nuzzles into the skin of Jon's neck and keeps up his pace, rubbing and stroking. Jon can feel his climax building. He gasps and pants, fingers clenching and spasming against Gendry's shoulders, where he's holding himself upright. Then Gendry licks broad hot stripes up his neck, nudging into him before biting down _hard_. Jon cries out at the feeling, the pain and the sense of Gendry having power over him combining to tip him over the edge. He comes hard, pulsing spurts over Gendry's clenched fist and onto the dirt at their feet. 

Gendry gentles his bite and his fist, kissing Jon's skin. He whispers words that Jon only partly registers, about how good he is. How perfect. At the same time Gendry continues to stoke lightly up and down his spent cock, helping him to ride out the aftershocks.

Jon shudders against him, head still resting on Gendry's shoulder, breath coming hard and fast. After a moment he straightens up and moves to tuck himself back into his pants, not meeting the other man's eyes. Gendry stops Jon with a hand over his.  
'We're not done,' he murmurs. 'Unless you want us to be.'  
Jon feels a jolt of surprise run through him, followed quickly by understanding and then a tingling anxiety he can’t help. He's thought about this, of course. He's not blind to how these things work, has heard the guardsmen talking among themselves some nights. But to do it … to have some other man _inside_ him …  
'Does it hurt?' he asks, darting his eyes up to Gendry's and then away again, feeling his damned face redden. 

Gendry puts a finger under his chin, tilting Jon's face up gently to meet his. The Smith's eyes are a deep blue that's still full of heat. 'I get no pleasure from fucking a man who's in pain from it,' he says plainly, and that puts Jon a little more at ease. 'I'll make it good for you.' He pauses and shrugs, a mischievous grin coming to his eyes, 'Course if you'd rather fuck me, I have no objection to that either.'  
Jon's eyes widen. He hadn't thought, hadn't imagined, that there would be a choice. That fact, that option, helps him to relax even more. He eyes Gendry's half naked body up and down, the broadness of his shoulders, the strength in his arms and chest, the rippling muscles down his stomach, the obvious bulge in his still-laced breeches. He licks his lips, thinking about having Gendry behind him, roughened hands on his hips, big strong body bracketing his. The though sends a tingle of new desire through him and he can feel a faint twitch in his spent cock.

'The - ah - the first one's fine,' he whispers, holding Gendry's eyes for just a moment before he has to look away from the embarrassment of what he just said. The glance is long enough to see the heat flare to fever pitch in Gendry's eyes. Then the other man leans forward to capture his mouth in a kiss, hard and demanding, all teeth and tongue and hot suction. Jon kisses him back with a groan. Gendry still tastes like the smoky warmth of the brandy and the taste is intoxicating. He feels Gendry's hands run over his hips and into the back of his pants, cupping his bare arse. He tenses but only momentarily. Gendry doesn't do anything, just kneads and rubs at the skin under his palms, moaning lightly. Then he breaks their kiss, biting at the side of Jon's jaw and down onto his neck, gasping between kisses,  
'Fuck your arse feels good Snow. Knew it would.'  
Jon shivers at the words, feeling himself begin to harden again at Gendry's touch and his words. He fists his hands in the other man's cropped hair and pulls them closer together. He wants Gendry to touch and taste every part of him. Gendry sucks another mark into his neck as his hands move with more purpose now, one gripping one of his arse cheeks, the other sliding with soft pressure over his untouched hole.

He gasps at the sensation of touch in a place that's only ever been private. Gendry continues the firm, confident pressure, stroking over his hole, almost back to his balls and as he gets used to the sensation he realises it feels good. Really good. He relaxes into Gendry's touch and the other man brings his head back up for a kiss.  
'Good,' he rasps. 'That's so good.' Then he pulls both hands out of the back of Jon's pants and Jon almost protests at the loss. But Gendry just twists to one side of him, grinding a delicious friction against Jon's cock as he does so, until he reaches a fist-sized vial that looks to be filled with liquid.

Jon frowns in confusion and Gendry catches the look.  
'Oil,' he says with a grin. 'We use it for the swords, but it's just as good for other purposes.' Then he winks and pours some of the slick substance over two fingers. They gleam in the ruddy light of the fires and Jon's eyes are drawn to them. Gendry's going to put those fingers in him … and then he's going to use his cock. Jon feels his own cock throb back to full, wanting hardness at the thought. He wants Gendry in him. Needs it all of a sudden.

Gendry catches the movement of his aching shaft as it bobs involuntarily and he grins savagely. 'I'm gonna make this so good for you, Snow,' he says, as he reaches for Jon's hip with his other hand, urging him to turn to face the bench in front of him. Jon does so, reaching forward slightly so his arms are braced on it. Gendry works the already loose pants down to Jon's mid thigh and nudges his legs as wide as they can go. Then he grabs Jon's arse in both hands and spreads his cheeks and just _looks_. Jon gasps and his face burns with embarrassment and desperate, panting need. He can feel the oil-slicked fingers just inches away from the place he wants Gendry to put them and he doesn’t want to wait any more. He shifts backwards slightly, angling his body so more of his weight is on his arms and his arse moves forward in Gendry's grip.

The other man's breath hisses through his teeth at the motion and a second later, those warm slicked fingers are rubbing over his exposed arse. Jon groans at the sensation, the waiting, but the sound is cut off as Gendry slips one slicked finger inside him, pushing just the first bit in and then smoothly back out. Jon gasps and shudders at the sensation. Gendry is already rubbing his slicked fingers over Jon's skin again, over and back, a constant, perfect pressure. And then there's a finger inside him again, deeper this time. And when Gendry pulls it back he doesn’t pull all the way out, but just moves it forward and back inside him, a smooth friction that very quickly goes from foreign to enjoyable. Jon drops his head to his shoulder and moans into the sweat-slicked skin of his arm.  
'Another?' Gendry asks in his husky voice and Jon doesn't hesitate. He nods and arches his back further, pushing his arse into Gendry's touch. The second, when it comes, is a burning stretch. Jon hisses at the sensation, but a moment later, Gendry is reaching around, roughened palm gripping Jon's aching cock. He rubs slowly up and down Jon's shaft in time with the movements of his fingers and soon Jon is rocking back to take the fingers deeper, then rocking forward to get satisfaction from the hand gripping him. He's keeping up a steady stream of moans and curses now, lost to everything but the hands on his body and the spiralling need they're creating inside him.

Then Gendry pushes deeper and crooks his fingers _just so_ and Jon cries out as a jolt of new pleasure bursts through him. He hears Gendry moan behind him and the other man's fingers spasm where they're clenched on Jon's hip now. Then he makes the same motion again, and again. Jon drops his head to his crossed arms on the bench, biting into his forearm to keep in his cries. The sparks of desire and pleasure and want are rising in him with every movement of the other man's fingers. He can feel his release building, unstoppable and he moans, lifting his head to warn Gendry, to tell him -  
But the other man seems to already know. Jon whines softly as Gendry's fingers leave him and he turns his head to look over his shoulder. Gendry leans forward, across his body, pressing a wet, open mouthed kiss to the blade of his shoulder and then to his mouth, both of them moaning at the sensation. Then he breaks it off to reach for the vial of oil again. Jon drops his head back to his arms, keeping his position, pants around his knees, legs spread, arse on display, dripping with oil, as he hears Gendry's ragged breathing behind him, the quick movements as he unlaces his own breeches and the slick of oil rubbed swiftly over skin.

He feels his whole body tingle in anticipation of what is to come and then he doesn’t have to anticipate. Gendry puts one hot, strong hand on his hip and he feels a blunt, hard pressure at his hole. He pushes back against it, wanting Gendry's cock in him. Tense with wanting but trying so hard to relax. It's so much bigger than his fingers had been and Jon hisses softly as the head enters him. Gendry pauses there, running a hand soothingly over his skin and murmuring to him again. 'Fuck you feel good. So good. So tight and hot. I got you. Relax. I got you.'  
Jon takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax and Gendry slips deeper. He groans at the sensation, hands curling into fists. It's good but there's hurt there too. Then Gendry's hands are back on him. One reaching around to fist with slippery wetness over his cock again, rubbing at it in time with Gendry's shallow thrusts in and out of him. Jon lets himself get lost in the sensations again, until Gendry is fully inside him, hips flush against Jon's arse. Then the other man stops. He puts both hands on Jon's hips and rubs lightly over his bare skin.

Jon hangs his head down on his arms, breathing in rough pants, getting used to the sensation, the feeling of something in him - some _one_ in him. The burning stretch has gone now and he can feel Gendry's hands clenching lightly against his skin, a tremble in his fingers. He lifts his head to glance back over his shoulder, and there's just enough light to see the expression on the other man's face. Gendry is _wrecked_. His face is a mix of raw, naked desire and knife edge control. Jon can see the effort it takes him for force himself to keep still. To make sure Jon is ready. A spool of warmth unravels within him that the other man would do that for him - would uphold his promise to make it good for Jon too.

'Move,' he whispers and Gendry lets out a ragged moan as he draws his hips back, pulling almost out of Jon before slamming them forward again in a slap of skin. Jon moans as well at the sensation as Gendry's cock moves inside him, running over that place that had felt so good just moments before. He shifts so he's standing more upright, bracing his weight on his hands and pushing back into Gendry's thrusts. Gendry lets out a low growl at the change of position and thrusts forward, again and again, a hard, fast movement that Jon feels deep inside him.   
Gendry's hands are gripping his hips so hard that he knows he'll be bruised tomorrow and that thought only adds to his pleasure. He moves with the man behind him, taking him as deep and hard as he can, grunting and crying out at the movements. Gendry fucks into him again and again, his cock sparking pleasure through Jon's body. He never wants it to end, but he can feel the end coming. He's getting closer to the edge and he thinks Gendry is as well. He can hear broken, muffled curses behind him and the other man's movements are getting less coordinated.

Suddenly one of Gendry's hands is on Jon's shoulder and he's urging Jon to stand straighter, pulling him back against the hard, bronzed body behind him. Jon wants to protest against the loss of the thrusting rhythm, but then Gendry's hand drops to his cock again and he almost cries at how good it feels to have the sweet relief of touch on his aching shaft combined with the grinding pressure of Gendry buried deep inside him. The Smith's hand moves faster and faster over him, rubbing and twisting, while behind him, Gendry continues to fuck up into him with short, hard movements. It's too much, too many sensations. Then the other man mouths at the corner of his jaw and Jon turns his head. Gendry captures him in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. It's awkward but he's so far beyond caring about that now. Gendry moans into Jon's mouth, twisting his hand just so, grinding up into him and then Jon's coming, harder than he's ever come before in his life. He cries out, whole body clenching with his release. Gendry groans again into his mouth and then pulls his hands back to Jon's hips, returning to the punishing rhythm from earlier. He thrusts half a dozen times and then he's crying out as well and he wraps his arms around Jon's chest, bringing their bodies back together, skin on skin as the both of them ride out their release.

It's a long moment before either of them moves apart from the harsh panting of their breathing in the cool night air. Then Gendry straightens and withdraws and Jon tries not to show how keenly he feels the loss. He can feel Gendry's come dripping from within him and part of him knows he should feel dirty … used … but mostly he just feels … happy. Sated. So much more at peace with himself than he's felt in a long time. He pulls his pants back up and laces them, not turning around to face the other man just yet. Not quite sure what comes next. Everything between them before now has been leading to this point … now that it's done, will the Smith want him to be on his way? He is surprised at the pang of hurt that this though brings and realises that he's grown to enjoy spending time with the other man, catching his eye across the practice field as he drills with the guard, or sharing a quick meal as one of them runs from one duty to another.

He tells himself that he's being silly and turns slightly to reach down for his shirt, wincing at the dull ache as he bends. He's had face worse pains from training sessions, but Gendry catches the movement and reaches out for Jon's arm with a look of concern.  
'Did I hurt you?' he asks, voice still husky.  
Jon shakes his head, unable to help the small, shy smile that stretches across his face.  
Thankfully, Gendry seems to understand without him needing to say any more. He smiles in turn and the look lights up his face, reflecting the happiness Jon realises must be showing in his own face.  
'Still,' Gendry says, mock severity in his voice, 'If I've caused the problem, it's up to me to fix it. I've heard tell there's some hot soaking pools in the castle somewhere. What's the odds no one's using them at this time of night?' he asks with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

Jon grins back, relief flooding through him at the thought that Gendry didn't want him to leave. 'I'll show you where they are,' he says, as he pulls his shirt back over his head. In the second it takes him to do that, Gendry is back in front of him, and bending forward for a kiss. This time it's soft and sweet and full of promise.  
'I think I'd like you to show me everything there is about this place, Jon Snow,' he murmurs as he moves back a fraction to gaze into Jon's eyes. 'I think I'm going to be here a good long while.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that. I very much enjoyed getting back into the lives of those two again. 
> 
> Didn't get a lotta love on something else I posted recently, so would love a comment to boost my day :p
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are life. Would love to know what you think.
> 
> Also, first time writing present tense, just to see how I like it ... Jury's still out.


End file.
